


Your Heart Is Your Own (So Build Me A Home)

by prosciutto



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Domestic Fluff, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-24
Updated: 2016-09-24
Packaged: 2018-08-17 03:29:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8128735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prosciutto/pseuds/prosciutto
Summary: He smirks over at her. “Well, you are kind of a slob. And apparently you don’t know how to unpack.” She scowls back, voice sharp when she tells him, “You have zero regard for hygiene and you need to chill about utilities usage.” “Touché.” He says, a hint of admiration showing in his tone.The obvious solution to her childhood home being sold is to move in with the guy who bought it, right? (Or: Bellamy and Clarke as not-so-willing roommates that eventually, inevitably, most definitely become something more.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Have I mentioned how much I love writing roommate!fic? No? Well, okay. Take this as a giant love letter to the whole, unwilling-roommates-that-fall-in-love-trope.

______________________________

Bellamy’s always known that buying a house comes with its own set of complications.

There’s overspending, picking a shitty loan, realizing that the house you picked was actually the site to a series of grisly murders that you refuse to read up on. He _knows_ how to handle all of this; is one of those people with a three-step plan on how to escape all these situations relatively unscathed.

So, logically? House-buying should be a breeze for him. But then again, nobody warned him about Clarke Griffin.

“Wait, wait, so back up.” Octavia goes, giving an incredulous laugh. “You’re telling me that a week _after_ Abigail Griffin sells you the house, her _kid_ comes out of nowhere and insists that you sell the house back to him?”

Nodding absentmindedly, he turns his attention back to the eggs sizzling on the pan, gives them a little poke with his spatula. “Via email, but basically, yeah. Offered me a whole lot of money for it too.”

She snorts at that, the sound disdainful more than anything. “I didn’t even know Abigail Griffin had a son.”

“I didn’t even know she had kids.” He points out, frowning, before lowering the fire on the stove. “But her son- well, with a name like Clarke, I’m assuming- seemed pretty adamant on this, so yeah.”

“Huh,” she goes, managing to sound wholly unimpressed and accusatory all the same. “And did you? Take him up on his offer, that is.” (Her reaction, he suspects, has mostly do with how Octavia was naturally wary of anyone with any semblance of riches or power. A trait, he also suspects, that was passed down from him.)

“Course not.” He scowls, lifting the pan carefully and upending the slightly burnt eggs (just how they like it) onto a plate. “I told him that I’m open for negotiations, but no way in hell am I selling him the house back. Not at the rate that I got it.”

Well, not when it was the only house in miles that was within the vicinity of Octavia’s apartment and his workplace, that is, but he didn’t think she’d appreciate it if he brought it up. Still, she must sense it anyway, because she’s rolling her eyes at him when he sets the plate down in front of her.

“You know,” she points out, crossing her arms over her chest and cocking a brow at him defiantly, “you can still big brother me from all the way across town. You don’t have to do it a block away from me.”

“Trust me,” he goes, working to keep his voice mild and unaffected. “I’m not doing it for your benefit. It’s close to _my_ workplace, that’s all.”

She doesn’t appear convinced, if the crinkle between her brows is any indication. He’s not sure what to say to that either, doesn’t know how to explain how uneasy he feels about her new job as a small-town police officer, about how it’s ironic that she spent her entire life resenting authority figures only to become one. There’s also the matter where he thinks her new partner, Atom, is _questionable_ but he’s definitely going to keep that to himself for now.

Clearing his throat, he tries again, poking at his portion of eggs in what he hopes is a nonchalant manner, “How is your job going, by the way?”  

“Good,” she says, narrowing her eyes over at him. “In fact, I should probably be getting to it right now. Don’t want to be late.”

He manages a grunt of assent at that, going back to shovelling at his breakfast while she bustles around her apartment, pinning on her badge and sliding her gun into its holster. It’s a little disorientating, watching her putter around the apartment in her uniform, but he holds off on saying anything until she makes her way to the door.

“Lock up once you’re done.” She goes, sparing a glance at him while she grabs at her keys. “And hey, good luck for your meeting later. He sounds like a real piece of work.”

“Yeah.” He says, forcing the words past the lump in his throat. And mostly because he can’t help himself, “Be careful out there? Please?”

“I’ll be _fine_.” She snaps, yanking the door open with a flourish. “Jeez, Bell.”

It makes him feel like he should apologize, somehow, but he quickly quashes the urge to. He shouldn’t have to say sorry for _caring_ for her. The door slams shut shortly after, and he finishes his food before dumping the plate in the dishwasher, checking the clock for the time before heading out. He’s meeting this supposed Clarke at his new house, and it’d probably be best if he showed up early anyway.

Drawing up to his doorstep, he fumbles for the set of house keys he’s deposited in the depths of his bag, cursing when he slams his knuckles against the spine of his notebook instead, a sharp flare of pain—

“Hi, uh. Bellamy? Bellamy Blake?”

Reluctantly, he raises his head, already feeling distinctly annoyed. There’s a girl standing before him, looking expectant, chin tilting slightly as she takes him in. It makes him feel embarrassed, somehow, standing next to her all sweaty and dishevelled while she looks fresh and clean and _neat._

Sighing, he extricates his hand from his bag, runs it over his face. “Look, lady. If you’re trying to sell me insurance here, let me just assure you that I’m all set, okay? I’ve had the same plan since I was eighteen. I’m good.”

Her brow arches in response to that, sounding mildly amused when she goes, “I’m not here to sell you insurance.”

“Right,” he replies, irritable, already distracted by the prospect of digging through his bag for the keys again. “Whatever it is you’re selling then. I really don’t have the time to listen to a sales pitch right now.”

“Okay,” she goes, bright, “but considering that this sale has to do with the house you’re currently standing in? I would certainly make the time for it.”

That gets his attention, at least, and when he lifts his head this time, she’s sort of smirking at him. “Clarke Griffin,” he says, slow, waiting for a glimmer of recognition, a confirmation.

“Yeah,” she says, sticking a hand out for him to shake. “The one and only.”

Swearing, he takes it, giving a perfunctory shake. “Shit, I’m sorry. Your name’s Clarke, so I just assumed, well,” he breaks off into a helpless shrug instead, resist the urge to comb out his hair with his fingers. “Yeah. My bad.”

“That’s rich, coming from a guy named Bellamy.” She says, a hint of teasing in her voice, dropping her hands back to her sides. “It’s fine, I guess. It happens.”

Locating the ring of keys buried half-under his sweatshirt, he shoots her another fleeting look of apology before unlocking the door before him. “After you?”

“Thanks,” Clarke says graciously, stepping past the threshold.

The next few minutes are spent making awkward small talk of sorts, trying desperately to feel each other out. It was a little difficult trying to get past the shiny veneer she had around her at times, coolly professional and wholly intimidating with her steady, unwavering gaze, but it was easier to make sense of her when he got her talking about the house. It was apparent that she adored it, voice rising in pitch and eyes brightening whenever the topic was brought up, and it _almost_ made him feel bad for taking the house away from her. Not enough, though, that he’d give up on it entirely.

“So,” he prompts, tapping out a aimless beat against his knee, “I take it that you’re not giving up until you get the house back.”

That gets a wry smile out of her. “I’m pretty determined, yeah.” Then, a little quietly, “My dad built this house. I spent almost my entire life in here, and I’m hoping to do the same for the rest of it.”

“But it didn’t stop your mom from selling it.” He points out, watching as her face darkens a fraction at that.

“We had a… disagreement about it.” She says, stiff, smile tight when she looks over at him. “That’s why I’m here, trying to handle the situation while she isn’t.”

Realizing that he has been jiggling his foot restlessly for the past few minutes, he forces himself to stop, linking his fingers together instead. “And I get that, I _do_ , but. I need this place too, you know? I don’t have anywhere else to live in, for one, and this is the only place that’s close to work and my sister _and_ doesn’t bust a hole in my pocket. Well, not too much, at least.”

“So, your answer is no.” Clarke says, flat, mouth twisting slightly as she looks down into her lap.

Taking a deep breath, he rolls out the tense muscles of his shoulders, forcing himself to relax. “Well, not entirely, no. I think I might have a proposition for you. One that is mutually beneficial.” 

She straightens at that, going from withdrawn to alert almost instantaneously. “I’m listening.”

“Okay,” Bellamy shrugs, and after some deliberation, decides to just launch into it straightaway. There didn’t seem to be a point in hedging or beating around the bush anyway, and it seemed like something she would appreciate. “It’s a big house, and truth be told, I’m not sure I can afford the utilities all by myself. A roommate would be nice, someone to pick up the slack and help out, you know?”

A beat passes, her expression going from pinched to considering. “It is a win-win for the both of us,” she muses, wringing her fingers together, clearly deep in thought. “And it wouldn’t make sense for you to live alone when there are three bedrooms.”

He snorts, assumes the most prissy voice he can muster. “Mind you, one of them is the _guestroom,_ Clarke. Don’t get it twisted now.”

That gets a laugh out of her, tinkling and light, and he finds himself having to tear his gaze away from the upturned corners of her mouth, the dimples set against her cheeks.

“Okay,” she says, decisive, unfolding her hands and laying them in her lap carefully. “Should we make it more official? Do you think I should write up a lease?”

“I don’t know,” he admits, slouching back in his seat. “I didn’t think you’d agree to move in with a total stranger, to be honest. Didn’t exactly think this through.”

She shakes her head, rueful, a small smile still playing on her lips. “Yeah, well. I didn’t think so either.”

Rising from his seat, he offers her a hand, pulling her up with him. “We’ll figure it out?”

“We’ll figure it out.” She echoes, squeezing at his hand.

 

+

He tells Miller, mostly because he doesn’t seem to be paying all that much attention in the first place.

“Picked up a roommate today.” Bellamy goes, deceptively casual, dropping the PS4 controller onto his knees whilst reaching for a cheeto.

This potentially life changing news is met by a grunt on Miller’s part. “What, like you just went to a shelter and adopted one? Or are they selling those at the store now?”

“Only at select stores that takes payment in coupons.” He quips, dusting his hands off on his pyjama bottoms. “Honestly, it wasn’t a big deal like I thought it was going to be.”

Miller’s gaze is still fixed resolutely on the screen before him, though he does manage to express grudging approval when he asks, “You actually figured out how to use Craigslist?”

“I didn’t find her on Craigslist,” he frowns, using the bone of his wrist to jerk his controller back in place. “Remember the meeting I told you about, with Abigail Griffin’s kid? We reached a compromise. She’s moving in with me.”

He startles at Miller’s sharp bark of laughter, shoots him a dirty look when the controller clatters to the floor. “Nice,” he says acidly, before attempting to pick it up with his toes.

“I’m sorry,” he chortles, “I just didn’t think you’d set yourself up for failure like this.”

“What’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

“It means,” Miller explains, popping his knuckles against his thigh, “that you never had a roommate before. You didn’t go to college, and Octavia doesn’t count because she’s your sister. I give you three months, tops, before you give in and move out.”

He can’t help it, he scoffs. “I’d like to think that I have a lot more self-control and resilience than that.”

“You’re forgetting that this chick wants the house to herself, aren’t you?” Miller goes, giving a slow, pitying shake of his head, clearly enjoying himself to some degree. “She’s going to make life a living hell for you. I mean, it’s what I would do, at least.”

Resisting the urge to kick at his ankle, he settles for a retort instead, grumbling out, “Not everyone’s diabolical like you.” Unfortunately, that’s when his cart decides to take a nosedive into the water, and he breaks into a scowl when the words _game over_ flashes on his screen, the bright red font mocking and blinding in equal measure.

Miller pats at his back, grinning. “Get used to this, bud. It’s how you’re going to be feeling for the next few months.”

“You’re an asshole.” He manages, before shuffling off to finalize the rest of Clarke’s move-in plans for the end of the week.

They settle on Saturday after some discussion, and Bellamy tries not to stare when she pulls up in a truck laden with boxes on a overcast, humid afternoon, twirling her keys around her pointer finger as she emerges.

It wasn’t just the truck, but that she looked different too, less polished and spit-shined, with her hair up in a messy bun and dressed in a paint covered shirt thrown over a pair of shorts. (It’s a little surprising, but he thinks he likes it.)

“Hey,” Clarke calls out at his approach, waving. “Thanks for helping me out? I feel really bad for taking up your weekend.”

“I don’t mind.” He replies, automatic, gaze drifting over to the numerous amount of boxes stacked haphazardly on the truck bed. “Uhm, where do you want me to start?”

Wincing, she makes a noncommittal gesture with her hands. “Anywhere, I guess? I didn’t label any of them, so it’s kind of a guessing game at this point.”

“Uh huh,” he breathes out, trying not to let his disbelief show. She packed without a _system._ Without any type of organization whatsoever. Jesus, this was going to be a clusterfuck. “I’ll just start moving the boxes then.”

“Sure,” she goes, already distracted, brow furrowing as she regards the truck thoughtfully. “I swear I packed a penknife somewhere. Be right back.”

And she’s flitting away even before he can say a word, leaving a trail of dried, peeling paint flakes in her wake. Tamping down a swell of irritation, he sweeps them off the driveway with his foot, directing them into the gutter before he stomps off to retrieve a box.

The first box is filled to the brim with _mugs,_ of all things, wrapped hastily in bubble wrap and peeling tape. Staring down into the depths of the box in disbelief, he pulls one out of the cluster, realizes that it’s hand painted with some sort of animated character on it.

“Hey,” he says, a tad impatiently when she barrels into the kitchen with a stack of boxes, “You do know that I have mugs here, right?”

Her hair is already frizzing, loose strands drifting out of her updo and falling in her eyes, making her huff with it. “Yeah, well. Just leave them there, I’ll handle them later.”

“Right,” he mutters under his breath, unearthing a pair of salt and pepper shakers shaped like cats dressed in tuxedos, “if there’s even _any_ room, that is.”

The next few boxes aren’t any better, piled high with paint supplies and weird, kitschy household items that Bellamy’s too afraid to ask about. (He’s positive that there are more lamps in her boxes than clothes, which is definitely an alarming statistic). It doesn’t help that she won’t let him unpack anything either, insisting that _she_ should be the one handling it, and _why doesn’t he go out and grab some dinner instead?_

“Fine,” he relents, after her fifth consecutive interruption, “but are you sure you don’t want me to get you some takeout? I can get a pizza on the way back.”

“I’m good!” She chirps, giving a valiant shake of her head even though he can’t help but notice how her smile goes tight around the corners. “I feel bad keeping you here on a Saturday night. You should go out, have fun.”

It’s a little hard to concentrate on having _fun_ when the house looked like a disaster zone, but he swallows back a smart remark, forces a smile instead. “Sure, well. You know where to find me.”

“See you later.” She says, wiggling her fingers at him.

It doesn’t occur to him that Saturdays are date nights for Miller and that Octavia takes the night shift for the weekends until he’s at the halfway point to their houses, his shoes skidding against gravel at the realization that this about exhausts all his social options in a single, fell swoop.

Letting loose a groan, he kicks at the ground stubbornly, resisting the urge to sulk. The entirety of the day had been stupid and trying and this was only his _first_ day living together with a roommate. A part of him knew that he could always go back to the house, maybe suggest ordering a pizza, but the larger part of him didn’t want to have to face making small talk over the counter with Clarke.

Taking a deep breath to calm himself, he spins on his heel, taking the long route to the nearest burger place instead. He had a book in his jacket pocket anyway, and Gina never minded when he sat by the bar for hours on end, just reading and picking at his food.

He loses track sometime after eleven and it’s late by the time he heads back, street lights flickering in the wind when he slides the key into the lock, easing the door shut quietly after he ducks inside.

The first thing he notices is that there are still boxes strewn everywhere, the light emanating from the TV throwing them into sharp relief as he makes his way through the minefield of them, scowling slightly. From what he can tell, she made some progress in the kitchen at least, considering the number of dismantled boxes piled up neatly by the side of the wall.

Peeling his coat off gingerly, he tosses it on the couch, hissing in surprise when he realizes that the lump at the end of the couch is, in fact, Clarke, curled up and snoring softly with her face pressed into the cushions.

“Hey,” he says, soft, not wanting to startle her. “Clarke. It’s probably not a good idea to fall asleep here.”

The only response he gets is a faint, sleepy snuffle as she buries closer into the cushions, settling herself deeper along the sofa while he stares on, a little dumbfounded as of what to do next.

“You know, this is how people get bad backs.” He mutters, jerking at her shoulder a little harder. “Do you want to be one of those with walking sticks at forty? Come on.”

A grunt as she shifts away from his touch, mumbling incoherently under her breath before it morphs into full-on snores, her head lolling back.

Straightening to his full height, he pads forward to switch the TV off instead. “Suit yourself.” He points out, kicking at the sofa leg lightly as she snores on, oblivious. “You’re going to regret this in the morning and I couldn’t care less.”

Then before he can talk himself out of it, he grabs at his coat, draping it over her shoulders carefully. She seems to like it, if her wrapping herself around the fabric snugly all while giving a contented sigh is any indication.

“Goodnight.” He murmurs, tearing his gaze away from her soft tufts of hair illuminated silver by the moon and flicking the lights off, plunging the room into total darkness.

 

+

Bellamy’s not the most optimistic person by nature- quite the opposite, to be fair- but the thing is, he expected things to pick up by _now,_ at least.

It’s been two weeks since they decided to try out this whole cohabitation thing, and if anything, his living situation has gotten continually _worse_ since that first night. It has actually come to a point where he’s been keeping a mental list of Terrible Things Clarke Griffin Has Done (also see: terrible things Clarke Griffin is probably capable of doing) that was shaping out to be a pretty darned long list:

 

  * ****She still hasn’t finished unpacking and there are boxes** ** _everywhere._****



 

Walking anywhere in the house is downright impossible at this point, at least not without banging up one of your limbs in the process. He’s acquired three bruises already, one from tripping over a box that she left by the washer-dryer, one from backing up too fast and colliding into the _tower_ of boxes she made by the garage, and one by walking right into a door in his attempt to avoid stepping on a open box.

“Oh wow,” she says, absentminded, when he barrels down the stairs, swearing at the top of his lungs with a warm washcloth pressed to the already swelling skin, “you should really watch yourself there. It’s an old house, so there’s lot of sharp edges and uneven floors to watch out for.”

Glaring, he spits out a sardonic, “You think?” before stomping off in true, dramatic, Bellamy Blake fashion. For fuck’s sake.

 

 

  * ****She has way too much things and zero organizational skills.****



 

One of the pitfalls of living in the house is that it only has a single bathroom located on the second floor, which of course, hadn’t been an issue at the time of purchase. Still, he had remained cautiously hopeful about the whole thing at the time; had even bought one of those little shower caddies from IKEA so she would have more room to store her stuff, and _yet._

The pins are the first things he notices, painted a light, pretty gold, scattered all over the countertop and perched on the sides of the sink. He’d pick up his toothbrush and two of them will clatter out of nowhere, landing in the vicinity of the laundry basket and thus disappearing into the endless void that was their pile of clothes. He’d grab at his conditioner in the shower and somehow end up with five pins in his hand, strands of fine blonde hair weaved between them.

Then it’s bottles and bottles of skincare products, lined up along the shelves and in the caddy and all smelling faintly of her, jasmine and peaches and a little like cinnamon. And honestly, he wouldn’t mind all that much (it’s not _awful,_ or anything) if she didn’t shove his bottles of shampoo and soap to the back, making it impossible for him to reach or find any of it without having to upend the contents of the cabinet while doing so.

It extends out of the bathroom too, with her stacks of medical textbooks placed haphazardly at weird points in the living room and art supplies scattered randomly throughout the house. He couldn’t go anywhere without spotting something that made him eye it curiously, wondering how it got there in the first place. In this case, it’s a single, fluffy slipper by the pantry.

“I wear them to sleep.” She says by a means of explanation when he asks her about it. “I have poor circulation and I get cold really easily, so those really help me out.”

“Okay,” he replies, with exaggerated slowness. “But I only found _one._ And by the pantry, no less.”

Clarke shrugs, picks at her nails. “I was hungry before going to bed last night.”

“But what about the other one?”

Another shrug before she leaps off her perch on the counter, a picture of nonchalance. “I’m sure it’ll turn up _eventually_.”

Right.

 

 

  * ****She’s strangely possessive about her food in the fridge.****



 

She’s stomping up to him the second he’s through the door, struggling with his coat.

“Did you do it?” she demands, planting her hands on her hips.

He blinks over at her, finally succeeds in yanking his arms free of his jacket. “Did I do what, now?”

Huffing, Clarke gives an exaggerated wave of her hands, eyes rolling skyward. “Did you eat my pasta salad? Because I was saving that for dinner tonight, but they were gone by the time I got back.”

Biting back a smart retort, he composes himself instead, pastes a smile onto his face. “Right. My mistake. You left it in the takeout bag, and I just assumed it was leftovers from yesterday. So, yeah. My bad, I guess.”

Her eyes twitches ever so slightly at that, brow jutting upwards jerkily. “Okay. That’s an…. logical assumption to make.”

“It is,” he goes, working to keep his voice innocent. Riling her up is rapidly becoming one of his favorite pastimes, and his version of doe-eyed naivety always gets her going. “Especially when it’s from the corner store. I mean, I _can_ head out there and buy you a new one if you want.”

“No,” she says through gritted teeth, jaw clenching imperceptibly before she spins on her heel, marching away defiantly. “It’s fine.”

“Suit yourself!” He calls out, letting out a small, private laugh at the sound of her muffled curse.

 

 

  * ****She takes forever in a the shower.** **(And has no sense of privacy).****



 

Okay, so he’s never actually timed her stints in the shower but they’re definitely about an hour long, which is ridiculous considering he has a _job_ to get to by nine in the morning.

Jiggling at the door knob, he suppresses a swear when he realizes it’s locked. “Clarke!”

He can faintly make out the shriek of the shower cutting off abruptly, her muffled voice, “What’s that now?”

“It’s eight fifty,” he barks, pounding his fist against the door for emphasis, “I need to brush my teeth before heading out, at _least_.”

“Give me a sec!”

“I don’t have a second!” He snarls, dropping his head against the wood of the door and wincing at the sudden flare of pain. “Jesus, Clarke.”

The knob jerks squeakily once before it’s pulled open, steam billowing out into the corridor and fogging up his glasses. Impatiently, he wipes at them with the hem of his shirt, levelling a glare at her forehead when she scoots out in nothing but a towel.

“I still need to wash the conditioner out of my hair,” she says, breathless, “but you can head in first and use the sink?”

Sputtering, he folds his arms across his chest, has to work at keeping from gaping, “While you’re _showering_?”

She frowns. “I don’t care. At least this gives you the option to wash your face too.”

“Yeah, well, I wouldn’t have to do that if you kept your showers under an hour.” He says tartly, ducking past her and into the bathroom, peeling his shirt off as he went.

Her offended scoff is audible even with the tap turned on high, and he yanks off his glasses before dunking his head under the sink. When he surfaces, it’s to the sound of her voice, shrill and venomous.

“— So maybe instead of being an accusatory dick, you could try something called _compromising_ for a change!”

He whirls onto her, has to squint to get her in his sight. “Compromise? Oh, so letting you leave all those boxes around for anyone and everyone to possibly trip over instead of just throwing them out isn’t a _compromise_?”

“I’m close to done!”

“You’re no closer to being done than you were when you moved in two weeks ago!” He hisses, fumbling clumsily for his glasses and shoving them on roughly.

Her laugh is mocking, incredulous. “Maybe I wouldn’t be taking so long if you didn’t keep leaving all your fucking dirty dishes to _stew_ all the time, leaving me to wash and dry them!”

“One time,” he argues, seething. “That happened _one_ time in the two weeks you’ve been here.”

But she’s barreling on as if she didn’t hear him before, one hand gesturing wildly in the air while the other grasped at her towel, “— And don’t get me started on the takeout situation. Why don’t you just throw them in the trash once you’re done? You leave all these bags in the sink and they start to stink up the whole place and I found _ants,_ okay? Okay, Bellamy? Do we need to start getting an exterminator now?”

“Well, I nearly broke my leg because someone left her goddamned books lying everywhere!”

“So do you!” She bursts out, slapping a hand against her head. “I sat on the couch the other day and your copy of the aeneid got all up in my ass!”

He can’t quite hold back the snicker that falls off his tongue at that, darting a quick peek over at her. The corners of her mouth are twitching too, as if she was trying to hold back on a smile, the tension from before dissipating just as quickly as it arrived.  

“It’s good, though.” She admits, marginally softer than before. “I hope you don’t mind that I read it.”

“It’s fine,” he says, feeling all the fight rush out of his veins as he slumps down by the sink. “Listen, I really don’t want to fight with you. I just— I’m not sure how this works? I’ve never lived with someone else before.”

Clarke sighs, fingers steepling at her temples. “Me either. And I know— I know I’m pretty difficult to live with. I, uh. I have my quirks. It’s the mildest way I can put it.”

He smirks over at her. “Well, you _are_ kind of a slob. And apparently you don’t know how to unpack.”

She scowls back, voice sharp when she tells him, “You have zero regard for hygiene and you need to _chill_ about utilities usage.”

“Touché.” He says, a hint of admiration showing in his tone.

Lifting a brow over at him pointedly, she waits, hand reaching down to rest on her hip.

“Fine.” He concedes, sighing. “I’ll ease up on the electricity bill and wash my dishes more frequently if you actually let me help you unpack.”

“You unloaded all the boxes for me!” She protests. “I don’t want you doing more!”

“No, you don’t want me doing more because you’re a control freak.” He points out, rolling right over her offended gasp. “That’s what I’m offering. Take it or leave it.”

Glowering over at him, she gives an indignant huff, tightening her grip around the towel. It makes him abruptly aware of their proximity, their respective states of undress, and he has to keep his eyes firmly on hers to keep from flushing.

“Okay.” She says, a tad grudgingly. “I guess we can do that.”

He rolls his shoulders back, offers her his hand which she slaps away with a pointed roll of her eyes. (He doesn’t miss the way her gaze drifts over to the vee of his hips though, is a little smug at the bob of her throat when she forces her gaze away.)

“Can I finish up my shower in peace now?”

“All yours.” He grins, grabbing his towel and toothbrush before heading out, catching a glimpse of her bare back in the mirror before he’s stumbling over the threshold, cursing as he slams the door behind him.

 

+

Surveying the mess before him, Bellamy clucks his tongue in mock disapproval, side-stepping past her smoothly when she attempts to flick at his forehead with her pointer finger.

“You know,” he muses, tapping at his chin, “I would say that this is a disaster zone, but that feels like I’m holding back.”

Glaring over at him, Clarke nudges a box out of the way with her ankle, shoulders hunched and looking positively murderous. “Anyone ever tell you that you have a flair for the dramatics?”

“I do have a certain gift for theatrics, yes.” He tells her, innocent, wrenching the cap off the sharpie with his teeth, “Okay. You take the right side of the room? I’ll handle whatever’s on the left. Oh, and don’t forget to label the boxes first before unloading. There has to be room to _move_ around if we want to get you unpacked.”

She gives a jerky nod of her head, still sulking a little. “I don’t see why we couldn’t have split off into different rooms instead. That’s a hell lot more efficient than _this._ ”

“It’s because you need constant supervision.” He says flatly. “The whole leaving-you-to-your-own-devices is what led to this situation in the first place, remember?”

“Like I said,” she says sweetly as she rips into a box, “you’re a total drama queen.”

They go on like this for the next few hours, and he willingly admits that it’s easier to be around her this time, relaxed in a way that he never could be before. The fight a few days ago seemed to have snapped all the tension between them, replaced it with something akin to companionship and warmth. It didn’t feel so much like fights than they were bickering now, playful more than anything, and he had to admit that it entertained more than infuriated him.

He really doesn’t mean to tell her about Octavia, doesn’t mean to confide in her about always having wanted to go to college or talk about his job either- but she’s a surprisingly good conversationalist; seemed to have an instinct for knowing when to ease up on certain topics, and when to push, too. The silences were rare and far in between, but when they happened, it felt comfortable rather than awkward. It’s nice, something he didn’t think he’d be able to find outside of Miller.

She convinces him to order a pizza after they manage to clear most of the boxes out of her room and they eat them straight out of the boxes, lying languidly on any exposed bits of floor they could find. The solitary bottle of beer found in the fridge is passed between them, alternating sips whilst staring up at the ceiling.

“God,” Clarke groans, dropping her pizza crust back into the box before flopping back down on the floor, “I shouldn’t have moved out during my college years. Should have just stayed here, saved myself all the hassle instead.”

“I second that motion.” He sighs, dropping his forearm over his eyes so he could shield himself from the harsh glare of the setting sun. “Though I’m guessing moving back into your childhood home wasn’t a part of your master life plan either, right?”

“Oh, it was.” She chirps, mocking. “Under plan B, after failing to make a name for myself in my profession of choice.”

He snorts, jostling at her lightly with his elbow. “Go figure.”

“I’m a natural pessimist.” She declares, swiping the bottle over from him and taking a huge swig. It goes quiet after that, and he finds himself distracted by the motes of dust floating by the window, glowing faintly in the light. He tips his hand up towards them, lets them graze up against his fingers.

It’s distracting enough that he almost misses it when she starts talking, startling just a touch when he realizes that she’s talking _to_ him.

“I always thought it was going to be here, you know? It was never a part of my plan because it was always supposed to just _be_ here. Waiting for me, for when I wanted to come back. With my mom and my dad and that stupid goldfish Wells gave me when I graduated high school.” She spits out a humorless laugh at that, head lolling and eyes closed. “I wanted everything to stay the same, exactly how it was. A piece of my past I could always have.”

Her face is tilted up towards the ceiling resolutely, determinedly not looking over at him, the only indication of her distress being the scrunch between her brows, the flutter of her jaw.

“It’s a nice thought,” he tells her, gentle.

“It’s a naive one.” She shoots back, though she sounds more tired than angry. “It left me with one dead parent and another trying to sell the place where I grew up in it so she could get remarried.”

There’s a part of him that’s tempted to probe at that, to ask her about her father, about everything that this house meant to her- but the tremble in her voice dissuades him from it entirely.

Hesitantly, he reaches out instead, touching at her wrist gently. Thumb against bone, meant to reassure. “So what happened to the fish?”

That, at least, gets her to look at him, dazed and confused and hair sticking up just about everywhere. “What?”

“You mentioned your dad, your mom,” he ticks them off on his fingers, turns over to look right back at her. “But what happened to the fish Wells gave you?”

Her laugh rings through the room, a bright, delighted sound. Surprised, more than anything. It fills him up with a kind of warmth, a satisfaction from having drawn it out of her.

“It died two weeks after I started at college.” She says, with as much solemnity she can muster, twisting out of his grip only so she could interlace their fingers; holding hands as the sun dipped below the horizon.

 

+

Everything doesn’t just magically fall into place after that, but it does get better.

There are still days when he finds her laundry draped over every surface of the house and days when she stashes the remote to the thermostat and refuses to tell him where he is because the entire house is _already at arctic temperatures, Bellamy!_ and, well. Those days tend to end in slammed doors and bruised egos that last all of two days before someone cracks, an apology offered in the form of a fresh pot of coffee or a spotlessly clean kitchen table.

But most days are good, contained a rhythm of sorts, a exchange of words and laughter as they flitted in and out of the house, circling each other like stars in the same orbit that brushed up against one another occasionally. He would see her perched on the counter in the mornings, digging through a bowl of cereal and she would walk in on him sanding down the chairs on weekends and he’d comment on her choice of dinner while she did the same for whatever he was reading that day.

They lived together but separately, and it was ideal. It was great.

So of course Bellamy had to _ruin_ it with his big, fat mouth.

To be fair, he only brings it up after she comes home with her _fourth_ takeout bag of the week, the faint smell of curry permeating the room as she bustles in, hair thrown into a messy braid and looking distinctly harassed.

“I don’t know about you, but I’ve had it up to _here_ with our neighbors.” She goes, launching straight into conversation as she unpacks the bag with alarming efficiency, ducking past him smoothly to grab at the carton of orange juice on the counter. “You know what they were commenting on as I was heading up our driveway? The shape of our _shrubbery_. Apparently, they’re not oblong enough.”

He frowns, tries to concentrate on what she’s saying despite the fact that he can’t tear his gaze away from the chunks of chicken that she’s spooning onto her rice. “I didn’t even know we had shrubbery.”

Waving him off, she spears at her mostly empty container with a fork, looking vaguely nonplussed. “I think they meant the scraggly bushes by the garage. To be honest, I don’t even know where they came from. But, point being—”

And in that moment it all clicks, the memory sliding into place effortlessly. “Wait,” He interjects, slow, brow quirking up involuntarily, “didn’t you just have that exact same curry _two_ days back?”

“No!” She insists, flushing red all over. “What? That’s… crazy. I had spinach lasagne two days back.”

“Oh, nice.” He counters, pitching forward on his elbows. “From where now? I didn’t know there were places around here that did that.”

Clarke pauses at that, clearly deliberating. Then, in a overly nonchalant manner, “Around.”

He resists the urge to roll his eyes, settles for tapping his finger against the marble impatiently. “I’m kind of looking for specifics here, you know?”

“You don’t have to,” she mumbles, averting her gaze from him pointedly. “I could always get it for you.”

“I can’t believe you would drive all the way to the next town to get me spinach lasagne if I asked.” He says, giving a disbelieving shake of his head. “And all to maintain a ruse? God, Clarke. I _saw_ you eating this a few days back. I emptied the trash, remember?”

“Fine,” she concedes, huffing. “I was, but it’s not like there are a lot of options around. This town is positively puny.”

Reaching over to poke at her food, he grimaces at the oil that seeps through the container, the sheen of moisture coating the chicken. “That’s what grocery stores are for. You know, cooking stuff yourself? It’s not a revolutionary concept.”

“I don’t know how.” She mumbles, spewing them out in a rush, barely decipherable and at odds with the determined, hard thrust of her chin.

He can practically feel his brows rising up to his hairline. “Like, at all?”

“I can make _toast_.” She goes, defensive, ticking off her fingers as she continues, “Cereal, grilled cheese, boiled eggs.”

“So what you’re saying is that you don’t even know how to scramble them.”

“I’m saying I know _how_ to,” she says, prim. “Mostly. In theory.”

Bellamy groans, has to bite at his lip to keep from laughing at the petulant expression that flashes across her face. “Jesus, Clarke.”

“It’s not like I had anyone around to teach me.” She grouses, scowling at the chunk of chicken that seizes the moment to capsize from her takeout box. “I’m not sure you realized this, but my mom can be kind of an asshole.”

“Playing the absentee parent card,” he says, giving an approving nod. “Good one. Really gets to my sympathetic side, and everything.”

“I didn’t think you had one.” She goes, teasing, batting her eyelashes at him exaggeratedly until he has to look away, laughing. “Seriously! It’s not the time to be belittling me about this. I mean, out of solidarity of being roommates and all.”

He hums a noncommittal response, flicks a grain of rice onto her wrist. “If you say so.”

“Shut up.” She says, poking her tongue out at him before directing her attention back to her dinner at hand.

It’s a pretty sad affair if he’s honest- wilting lettuce leaves and stale rice and hardened chunks of chicken- and that’s probably why he speaks up anyway, making sure to inject a great deal of nonchalance in his voice when he says, “I can teach you, if you want. But you have to be willing to do the washing up after.”

She eyes him suspiciously, fork hovering over the container. “That sounds cumbersome for you. Having to make two portions, that is.”

“I make too much for myself anyway.” He says hastily, rubbing at the nape of his neck self-consciously at the doubtful expression on her face. “Besides, cooking is an important life skill, okay? You should learn the basics, at least.”

The expression on her face softens marginally, edges of her lips twisting upwards. “Only if it isn’t going to be a bother for you, or anything.”

“Nah.” He tells her, grinning as he steals a chicken cube off her plate, “You’re saving me from having to store leftovers, actually. So thanks.”

“I’ll pick up the food tomorrow then.” She volunteers, clasping her fingers together. “Give me a list?”

“Sure,” he agrees, edging past her and pulling the fridge door open, “just don’t be holding your breath for Michelin star dishes, or anything. I’m good at all the grade school favorites, like pasta and ants on a log and pancakes, so that’s what you’re going to be learning.”

That gets a snort out of her, patting at his shoulder as she passes. “You would have been my dream boyfriend when I was in the sixth grade.”

“I’m everyone’s dream boyfriend!” He calls out to her receding back, smiling into the relatively empty contents of the fridge when her easy, lilting laugh reaches his ears.

And so dinners became a collective event, the evenings spent coaching her through the simplest of dishes. The rest of the night was spent with their plates balanced on their knees as they lounged on the couch, flipping through netflix options and arguing about whose turn it was to pick. They mixed things up sometimes, adding drinking games to the fray while they watched terrible movie after terrible movie, which of _course_ it led to board game Tuesdays (that got competitive unfortunately fast) and documentary Fridays and get-drunk-Saturdays (Clarke’s favorite).

Bellamy found that he liked it though, liked _her,_ liked how they managed to effortlessly slip from cordial roommates to friendship in a couple of months. They didn’t just exist on the same orbit, not anymore, and he found his mind wandering to stellar collisions and how the impact itself formed black holes. (Maybe that’s what they are now. Terrible metaphor, but he doesn’t hate it.)

What he _does_ hate though, is Clarke’s insistence on dragging him out ridiculously early on a Saturday morning.

“I don’t see why we can’t just go to IKEA,” he grumbles, casting a dirty look over at the horde of people jostling past them carelessly. “It’s stuffy and crowded and everything here smells like mothballs.”

Her laugh is lost in the clamor of the crowd, the upturned corners of her mouth and a glint of teeth being the only hint of what transpired seconds before. He pushes forward to hear her better, her fingers clamping down on his forearm and pulling him closer.

“— That’s what makes garage sales _fun_ , you grump. The only thing we’re missing right now is a fight breaking out over a ottoman shaped like a pineapple, followed by a smackdown in the breakables aisle.”

Rolling his eyes, he nudges her out of the way of another incoming crowd, pressing a hand against the small of her back to propel her forward. “And that’s well and good and all, but I really just want some coffee.”

“We’ll get you some!” She chirps, bright, fingers skittering down the length of his arm so she could grab at his hand. “Besides, everyone’s clearing out now, so it’s the prime time to score some leftovers. Let’s move!”

He tries to keep his surprise from showing on his face, instinctively squeezing at her palm when she drags him through the now relatively emptier aisles, chattering a mile a minute. It’s not the first time they’ve held hands, but it _feels_ like the first time they’ve done it without some sort of purpose in mind. Not to reassure, or to remind her that he was here, but… just because she wanted to. Bellamy swallows, pushes back the emotion swelling against his chest, threatening to crack at his ribs.

“So I know you think floor lamps are a real hassle,” she continues, oblivious to the effect she’s having on him, “but I think it would look really nice in our hallway. I’m all about compromising though, so how about one of those larger-than-normal table lamp instead?”

The question jerks him back into the present, into awareness, and he manages a quick smile, clearing his throat before going, “As long as it’s not a monstrosity, I don’t care.”

“You will when I get the one with monkeys on them.” She declares cheerfully, twisting at their intertwined hands so she could poke him in the chest. “You okay? You seem a little out of it.”

Feigning nonchalance, he pretends to be distracted by a set of battered cutlery instead. “I’m _fine._ Just don’t see why we have to get a lamp, that’s all.”

“That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about,” she admits, biting at her lip apprehensively, the words coming out in a rush when he finally turns to look over at her. “I think we should start inviting people over.”

“A _what_ now?”

She gives an exasperated sigh. “You heard me the first time.”

“I did,” he says pointedly, arching a brow at her. “I’m just confused as to _why_.”

“We’ve been living together for months and my friends haven’t met you _once_ ,” she reminds him, dropping his hand from her grip. “They’re starting to think you’re secretly a recluse who’s out to steal me out of my fortune and wear my skin after. As in, murder.”

He huffs, crossing his hands over his chest. “My friends haven’t met you either and they don’t think that about you.”

Clarke makes a face at that. “I don’t think Miller thinks all that much about your living situation, to be honest.”

“I have friends other than Miller!”

She doesn’t acknowledge that statement with a response, just keeps going. “My point is that it would be nice for our respective friends to come over and see how well we’re doing, you know? Show them how great we are at this roommate thing.”

Narrowing his eyes over at her, he assumes an expression of deep suspicion. “By friends, you mean your mom, don’t you?”

“I mean, yeah.” She goes, looking a little sheepish at being caught out. “But come on! It’s a perfect opportunity to throw it in her face!”

He shakes his head, amused. “God, you can hold a grudge. Remind me never to piss you off?”

“You do it on a daily basis already.” She tells him, her smile belying her words before her fingers latch around his wrist once more, pulling him along and plunging back into the crowd.

 

+

They end up with the monkey lamp, a new set of plates and a _bookcase,_ of all things.

“It’s better than leaving your books lying around all the time!” Clarke says, stubborn, heaving a bulging bag filled with screws, unvarnished wood, and a practically illegible set of assembly instructions past the threshold. “It’ll do us good in the long-run!”

“Sure,” he says through gritted teeth, wincing when the dangling plug of the lamp thwacks him in the thigh, “if moving in all of _this_ doesn’t kill me first, at least.”

“Drama queen.” She shoots back, more fond than anything.

“Drama queen that’s going to build you a book shelf.”

“Us,” she stresses, frowning slightly before kicking the door shut behind her. “Your books are going to take up more room anyway. I only need _two_ shelves, max.”

“I’m going to bring this up if I see your sketchbooks slotted anywhere remotely near my third shelf,” Bellamy warns her, dropping the lamp onto the cushions of the sofa. “Which, incidentally, is going to be the shelf for my encyclopedias. So you’ve been warned accordingly.”

She gives a disdainful scoff at that, elbow jostling against his. “Nerd.”

He pushes back with equal force, regrets it almost instantly when she nearly tips over and he has to steady her with a palm on her waist. “Nerd who’s building you a bookshelf.”

Clarke cocks her chin over at him, curious, arms folding across her chest in a motion that has him blushing and hastily averting his gaze. “You’re going to hold this over my head all the time now, aren’t you?”

“Probably.” He admits, flopping down onto the sofa so he could rip the bubble wrap off their newly purchased plates. “Were you expecting anything less?”

“No.” She grumbles, sounding mildly taken out by the fact. “Fine, then. Leave the shelf, Bellamy. _I’ll_ build it.”

He sputters, tripping over the words he meant to say. “Really?”

“Yes, really.” She says in a poor approximation of his voice, hitching the bag up and over her shoulder before taking the stairs two at a time up to her room. “So don’t you worry about any of it because _I’m_ going to handle it from now on!”

“That’s not comforting in the slightest!” He calls out, his words lost in the sound of the slam of her bedroom door.

(Maybe he peers into her room once or twice after that- mostly to see if she’s making progress- but the bag remains shoved under her desk, untouched, for weeks to come.)

 

+

Bellamy had mostly forgotten about the whole _let’s-be-sociable-and-invite-people-over!_ venture, so it’s kind of a shock when Clarke brings it up several days after.

“Is this weekend good for you?” she asks, poking at the pot of boiling water with a stray chopstick, looking vaguely displeased at its contents. “I was thinking something casual, like pizza and a movie with all our friends.”

“And your mom.” He says flatly, drawing up behind her so he could peer down into the pot too. “Let’s not forget the whole point of you wanting to do this.”

She scowls, swears when her chopstick punctures the side of the swirling poached egg in the pot and turning the water a sickly shade of orange, “It’s not the _whole_ point.”

“Half of the point.”

“A _quarter_ of the point.” She concedes, yanking at the dial to switch the stove off. “I meant what I said about my friends wanting to meet you.”

“And I meant what I said when I told you that I make terrible first impressions.” He sighs, reaching past her for a fresh carton of eggs. “Your friends will be practically begging you to move out by the end of it.”

“Aww,” she beams, reaching up to poke at his cheek gently. “You’re pretty cute when you’re worried.”

It’s his turn to scowl now, “I’m _not_ worried.”

“You are because you _want_ them to like you.” She beams, taking the egg out of his hands and tapping at it with a fork serenely, “It’s written all over your face.”

There’s no appropriate response to that, at least not one he can think of right now except that of course it did because it was _Clarke._ He had gotten used to her presence, wanted her around more than ever, and that would prove to be difficult if her friends hated him. Still, it’s not like he can tell her that, and so he settles for a challenging, “Oh, and you _don’t_ care about what _my_ friends think of you?”

He’s expecting a snarky remark in response or maybe one of her patented eyerolls, but she flushes instead, chin dipping to her neck.

“I do care.” She says, in a voice so soft that he almost misses it entirely.

“Well,” he goes, a little flummoxed by her response, the hint of pink in her cheeks, “good. That makes the both of us.”

“Good.” Clarke echoes, and it felt like she was saying something and nothing all at once.

Averting his gaze away hastily, he huffs out a curse at the egg shells he finds in his bowl, fishes them out with a spoon grudgingly. “I’ll ask Octavia and Miller if this weekend is good for them. And my other friends!” He hastens to add at the quirk of her lips.

“Bring the whole gang.” She says teasingly, dropping his apron over his shoulder. “Hell, invite the cavalry if you like.”

He swats at her with a dishrag, bites back a smile at her surprised yelp, the giggle that comes after. “Yeah, yeah. Now get out of my kitchen, I’m _cooking_.”

“I got it, Yelly McShouty Pants.” She goes, throwing in a salute to boot before slinking out of the room, presumably to call her friends.

The next few days are a little stressful, but nothing he can’t handle. After some thought and deliberation, he finally settles on inviting Octavia, Miller, Murphy and Monroe, texting them the details dutifully all while attempting to keep a cool head about the entire matter at hand. It’s just _dinner._ With his friends. And well, hers, too. It’s not like it’s going to be _hard_ or anything.

Clarke, surprisingly, is being a little more antsy about it than he is, but he values his life enough not to call her out on it.

“Oh my god,” she announces, barreling into the room, wild-eyed and clothes askew. “ _Bellamy._ We forgot about the most important thing. The most important thing about hosting parties.”

He stares at her, unblinking. “Alcohol?”

“Ice!” She practically wails, hopping from one foot to the other. “We forgot to get ice from the store! I was thinking we could go down right now, and you pick up the ice while I go grab one of those tiny, fancy cheese platters from—”

“We have ice.” He interrupts, tamping down the sudden urge he has to burst into laughter. “I bought a bag the last time we went to the store.”

“Oh,” she deflates, sagging against the counter top. “Thank god. You still think we should do something about the cheese platter though?”

He makes a face at her. “Are the people you invited the sort to eat cheese platters?”

“No.” She mumbles, slumping forward further, forehead pressed against his shoulder. “Ugh, I can’t believe I’m being such a control freak about all this.”

“You’re good,” he tells her, patting at her neck absently and weaving his fingers through her hair. “Think about it this way: it’s going to be over in a few hours.”

Her groan is muffled by his shirt. “I’m _supposed_ to be having fun.”

“Social interaction never is,” he says, grave, ducking down impulsively to press a kiss against her forehead. He could feel her shiver under him. “Come on, up and at them.”

Their friends start arriving shortly after seven, most of them Clarke’s considering _his_ friends had issues with punctuality (and by issues, he meant that they had a completely different definition of the word). He does get into a pretty engaging conversation about chess with Wells though, manages to teach Monty how to pop a beer cap without getting the bottle opener followed by playing a game of Mario Kart with Raven that was more about trash-talking each other than anything else.

It’s fun, _easy,_ and he finds himself relaxing into it after a few hours.

Miller plops down next to him once they get Star Wars (Empire Strikes Back, because Octavia can’t stand the prequels) up and running, loops an arm over his shoulder companionably.

“What?” he asks with a pointed jerk of his shoulder; a piss-poor attempt to dislodge Miller’s arm from its perch.

“What makes you think I was going to say anything?” He counters, clucking his tongue at him disapprovingly.

“Because you don’t do anything for no reason.” Bellamy grumbles under his breath. “Now, out with it. I don’t want you bugging me throughout the entire movie.”

Miller eyes him consideringly, then with no finesse or tact whatsoever, “So, are you and your roommate dating now?”

His first instinct is to laugh, strangely, but it comes out as a strangled noise instead. “What gave you _that_ idea?”

“Wait,” Octavia chimes in, brow knitted. “You’re not dating Clarke?”

“You know she’s just in the next room, right?” Wells points out, lowering his voice a fraction. “Though, yeah. I was wondering the same thing.”

His face feels hot, and he rearranges his features into a grimace in an half-hearted attempt to compose himself. “We are _not_ dating.”

“So you guys just look at each other, heart-eyes and all, for fun?” Raven replies, disbelief clear in her voice. “Uh, sounds convincing.”

“Unbelievable.” Monty snickers, exchanging a high five with Miller.

“ _Shut up_ ,” Bellamy hisses, casting a furtive look over at the wide-open kitchen door. “I swear to god, if anyone brings this up to Clarke later—”

“You _like_ her,” Miller sing-songs, popping the back of his head with a quick flick of his wrist. “Go on, try and deny it.”

He opens his mouth to argue, tongue thick and clumsy, words dying even before he could formulate them. It’s not in his nature to lie- not to Miller at least- and the truth was that he _had_ caught on to his distinctly non-platonic feelings for Clarke. It laid there under the surface, dormant, for a considerable period of time now. Bellamy just never wanted to admit it to anyone, let alone himself.

He’s saved, thankfully, by the sound of Clarke’s voice, drifting over from the kitchen. “Bell, my mom’s dropping by in five minutes. Come help me with the pie?”

Swallowing, he wets his lips, wiping his sweaty palms on his jeans. “Coming!” He yells, shooting Miller the filthiest look he can muster, making sure to trod on his foot, hard, before heading out.

 

+

His latest epiphany about having feelings of a _certain_ sort about a _certain_ roommate isn’t met with any kind of dramatic emotion- no mournful staring out of a window, or angry kicking of boxes, at least- though it is accompanied by a single side effect that he’s not all that keen on: insomnia.

Kicking off the sheets that have somehow tangled themselves around his ankles, he pads out of the room and down the stairs, letting out a muted curse when he nearly trips over the uneven floorboards. He could turn on the lights, but Clarke’s a light sleeper, and—

He stops short at the sight; the room awash in a pale, flickering light from the TV, illuminating the figure seated on the couch with her head bent over a sketchbook.

There are charcoal smudges all the way up to her elbow, her hair a tangled halo around her face as she continues with her sketching, his less-than-graceful-entrance apparently having gone unnoticed by her. Running a palm over his face, he gives himself a minute to stare, to take her in fully. She felt surreal but apparent all at once, a walking contradiction, just like the way she made him feel: safe but vulnerable, a sparking, spitting exposed wire that only quietened in her presence.

Shaking his head as if it could clear it of his thoughts, he takes a pointed, deliberate step forward, giving a little cough so as not to startle her. “Can’t sleep?”

It doesn’t work if her startled yelp is any indication, limbs scrambling as she clutches her sketchbook to her chest. He can’t help but laugh a little at that, his reaction only prompting her to reach out and smack at his chest lightly.

“What the _hell,_ Bellamy?”

“I was bumbling down the stairs.” He points out, dropping into the seat next to hers. “I thought you heard me. I’m not exactly subtle or anything.”

“It’s not your strong suit.” She agrees, leaning into his side, and he drapes an arm around her shoulders before he can overthink it. “But I wasn’t exactly paying attention to anything else, so.”

He makes a vague noise of understanding, runs a finger down the spine of her sketchbook. “Hit by a sudden bolt of inspiration?”

“Yeah.” She replies, peering up at him from between her lashes, her apprehension palpable in the quiet. “I’ll show you, but you might freak out on me.”

“Is it a nude portrait of me?” He teases, placing a hand over his heart dramatically. “Because I have to tell you, I’ve always secretly wanted—”

She groans, elbowing him in the ribs. “Do you want to look at it or not?”

“I do, if you’ll stop stalling already.”

“Am _not_.” Clarke mumbles, then almost petulantly, she thrusts the sketchbook out at him, pages fluttering in the light breeze.

He takes it from her, smoothing down the crumpled edges carefully before he realizes what he’s looking at. His breath catches in his throat, voice coming out raspy when he speaks, “I can’t believe you drew this.”

“It’s a nice view from where I was standing.” She tells him, smiling crookedly, pressing her thumb against Raven’s hair and smudging it out carefully. It’s of all of them seated on the couch, laughing, legs tangled and Octavia’s palm resting against his shoulder. “Seemed like a nice moment to capture.”

“It would have been nicer with you in it.” He retorts, wry, his gaze catching on the series of smaller sketches below it, of hands and messy hair and his own face staring back at him. “What’s this?”

Clarke winces at that, fidgeting as her hand comes over to rest at the back of her neck, the motion awkward and clearly a little embarrassed. “It’s, uh. You. I’m sorry- I know I should have asked, but you make a pretty good subject.”

He traces his fingers along the sketch, the sweep of his jaw, the dusting of freckles over his cheek that she got just right. It feels personal, somehow, private, a thought rising unbidden: _this is the way she looks at me,_ in shades of grey and stark lines and a kind of softness in every single one of them.

“These are brilliant,” he says finally, a little surprised at the hoarse quality of his voice. “ _You’re_ brilliant. And I’m not just saying this because you picked some excellent subject matter.”

That gets a laugh out of her, high and clear, and he grins when she presses her face against his shoulder, hiding her blush. “Right, like it has nothing to do with you being the star of all this pieces, right?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.” He declares, twisting his body so he could look at her properly. “Shit, Clarke. Just accept the compliment already.”

She gives a noncommittal hum in response, purposefully vague, but the pleased flush extending to her neck gives her away. “Fine. So what about you? Why are _you_ here at this time of the night?”

Shrugging, he picks at the loose thread from his fraying shirt, playing for time as he cycles through the various excuses in his head. Each one felt more unbelievable than the last, and he decides to settle on the truth instead. “Couldn’t sleep,” he admits, stretching his feet out so he could shake the pins and needles out of them, “So I came down here for a glass of water.”

“Huh,” she nods, looking thoughtful. “You could do that, yeah.”

Bellamy arches a brow over at her, staring pointedly at where she’s resting her weight against him, cheek against shoulder and knees pressed together. “Can I, now?”

“Or,” she continues blithely, as if he didn’t say anything before, “you could stay here and watch bad infomercials with me until we fall asleep.”

Her hair is ticklish against his neck, the steady thrum of her pulse evident when she rests her palm over hers. _I’m going to tell you one day,_ he thinks, lining their fingers up against one another’s, bone to bone, line to line. _I’ll tell you everything soon: how you make me feel, how I feel about you._

All the worry and anxiety from before felt as far away as the stars, a separate entity altogether with Clarke sitting right next to him. Quiet; like being submerged underwater, a kind of peace that he’s never known.

“Yeah,” he says finally, closing his eyes. “The latter sounds like a better plan anyway.”

 

+

Work trips are a rare, infrequent sort of thing for Bellamy- you didn’t get much of an opportunity to travel _anywhere_ when you’re a teacher- but the occasional field trip cropped up sometimes, which explains the current state of his room.

“Oh my god,” Clarke cackles, stepping past an overturned duffle bag and the scattered remains of his falling-to-pieces winter jacket, “I feel like I should take a picture to commemorate this, or something.”

Glowering over at her, he pulls the duffle bag back into an upright position, starts stuffing it with whatever stray shirts he can find. “Hysterical. I’m glad you’re finding this whole situation funny.”

“Well, you normally seem prepared for anything, so yeah. This is a _little_ funny.”

Snatching up the swath of fabric hidden underneath his blankets, he eyes it critically before dropping it into the bag. “It’s a last minute thing. I wasn’t even supposed to go, but Sterling’s sick and Harper practically begged me to go in his place.”

“That’s nice of you.” She remarks, tossing him a wad of socks which he hastily shoves into the side pocket of his bag. “How long are you going to be gone?”

“A week.” His gaze catches on the line of pots by his window, cactuses and ferns and his carefully tended to flowers. “Could you—”

“I’ll take care of your plants.” She interjects, and sensing his train of thought, adds, “And the rest of the house too.”

He has no doubt that she will but the opportunity to rile her up proves too good to resist, and so he goes for a comical grimace instead. “Really? I’m not going to come home to find it burnt to cinders or crawling with rats?”

Predictably, that gets an indignant squawk out of her. “The rat was a _one_ time thing, Bellamy! And for the last time, I have no idea how it got there.”

“Sure.” He tells her, nonchalant, shaking with the effort of keeping a laugh at bay. “It wasn’t attracted by your festering heap of laundry or anything.”

Flinging another balled up pair of socks at him, he ducks away just in time, laughing. Her arms are crossed over her chest now, scowling as she stomps up to him. “I don’t know why I’m helping you pack when you’re being an absolute _ass_.”

“You don’t have to,” he chuckles, peeling the abandoned sock off the ground with his feet. “I got this, okay? Besides, I know you’re having dinner with Raven tonight.”

“I mean, yeah.” Clarke admits, her tone still a tad grudging despite the fact that she’s regarding him with a measure of fondness now, eyes soft and lips quirking up. “Just- don’t pack way too many books in there and forget about underwear.”

He removes The Odyssey from his bag to placate her, arching a brow in question.

That gets a small laugh out of her. “Good try,” she tells him, going up on her toes and planting a firm kiss on his cheek, her breath warm and lingering before she pulls away. “Have a safe trip, Bell.”

There’s too much to process at once, the heat of her skin against his, the fact that she called him _Bell;_ then she’s walking away before he can say anything in response, easing the door shut.

 

+

It’s impossible to concentrate on _anything_ over the next few days- his thoughts drifting inadvertently back to Clarke at every opportunity- though he does snap out of it by the time the last day of the field trip rolls around.

Bellamy didn’t think anyone would notice, not really- until Harper brings it up, that is.

“So,” she says, falling into step next to him. “Couldn’t help but notice that your little speech on Greek architecture was lacking its usual pizazz today.”

“Oh.” He says ruefully, trying valiantly not to let his embarrassment show. “Shit. That bad?”

She cocks her chin over at him, thoughtful. “Not really? It just seemed like you were a little distracted. Hell, the fact that you’re in a museum and _not_ actively freaking out? That says a lot.”

He cracks a smile for her. “Maybe I’m just not interested in their displays here.”

“You once spent fifteen minutes staring at a cracked urn that originated from Ancient Rome,” Harper says dismissively, waving him off. “You think _everything_ in a museum is fascinating.”

“Shut up.” He mutters, the words lacking heat entirely. “I just- I have some stuff on mind, okay?”

“Clearly.” She hums, pushing against his arm lightly. “You know that it’s just going to keep bugging you until you handle it, right?”

Grunting over at her, he accompanies it with a stubborn jerk of his shoulder. “Yeah, yeah. I got it mom.”

“That’s rich coming from you,” she retorts, steering him into the vicinity of the gift shop where they are momentarily distracted by their group of hyperactive, hormonal teenagers. “Is it relationship drama?” she asks, once the hububb has died down. “I didn’t know you’re dating anyone at the moment.”

He groans, rubbing at his face impatiently. “I mean, not technically. But there’s someone in the picture, yeah.”

“Someone that you like.” Harper goes, wiggling her brows at him playfully.

“How astute of you.” He drawls, grinning when she shoots him a pointed eye-roll. “Alright, alright, I’m just teasing.”

“You shouldn’t be teasing someone who’s trying to help you.” She tells him, exasperated, though the effect is somewhat ruined with the way she’s smiling at him. “Does the person in question know how you feel?”

His gaze catches on the array of embossed sketchbooks propped up in the display case, the set of paintbrushes fanned out across them, glinting gold under the glare of the spotlights.

“No,” he says absently, leaning down for a closer look. “Not yet, at least.”

Harper makes a sympathetic noise in response, patting at his shoulder comfortingly. “Hey, from what _I_ know? A grand gesture always helps.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” He tells her, arm already raised to wave the shop assistant over.

+

He comes home on a Friday afternoon, to what he assumes would be a empty house.

At least that’s what Clarke told him the last time they texted. She did illustrations for children’s books which meant that she had frequent meetings with book publishers and editors that sometimes dragged on all day and would often lead to her coming home close to midnight, grumpy and toting a bag of fries she got from the drive through.

So he’s definitely surprised when he spots her bounding down the stairs on his arrival, paint smeared all over her cheeks and looking distinctly frazzled.

She stops short upon noticing him, mouth dropping into an indignant O. “You said you were only getting back this evening!”

“You said you had meetings all day!” He shoots back, stomach flipping at the thought of her having _lied_ to him. “You- do you have someone over? Is that it?”

His question is met with a wrinkle of her nose, mouth twisting to scoff at him. “ _No._ ”

The relief that washes over him is tinged with shame, stemming from the awareness that he has no _right_ to mind. “Right. Uhm. Well, I’m early because it turns out the bus driver is actually auditioning for a part in the fast and furious franchise and ran, like, three red lights on the way here.”

That gets a snort out of her. “I’m deliberating if that’s a bad thing, honestly.”

“Nah,” he says, reaching forward to graze at the wet spot of paint on the inside of her forearm. “Got me where I wanted quicker than I expected, so I’m counting that as a win.”

She glances up at him, then down to the red smudge of paint that has made its way to his thumb. “Alright, so maybe I lied about being busy today.”

“I figured,” Bellamy shrugs, working to sound nonchalant. “Can I ask what that’s about or are you going to remain all secretive about it?”

“It’s better if I show you.” She goes, with a purse of her lips. “It’s— I’m not exactly done yet, but it’s going to have to do.”

“Oh, my god.” He announces, squinting over at her. “You repainted your bedroom walls, didn’t you? For the last time, Clarke. It’s not _easy_ to strip wallpaper that’s been on there for the last fifteen years.”

“No I didn’t!”

“You killed my plants.” He continues, decisive, words dropping off into a yelp when she loops something over his eyes, obscuring his vision. “Hey! What the hell?”

Her laugh is breathy, a gust of hot air right up against his ear that makes him shiver. “It’s a surprise, you dummy.”

“If this is all just an elaborate plot to inform me that you switched all our bathroom tiles, I swear to—”

She makes an impatient noise, lacing their fingers together and tugging. “Will you just follow me already?”

He grunts his response, wonders briefly if he should pull away just so he could wipe his palms on his jeans, decides against it when she gives a reassuring squeeze instead. Then, tapping at his wrist bone, they begin to ascend the stairs slowly, clumsy in their progress.

His pulse is a drum beat in his ears, mouth dry as his mind races with all the different possibilities. “You didn’t destroy anything, did you?” He tries, licking at his lips. “Everything in the house is intact?”

“Should I be hurt that you have so little faith in me?”

“ _Clarke._ ”

“Quit your whining,” she says finally, and he can faintly make out the sound of her struggling to twist at the door knob one handed. “We’re here already.”

“Narnia?”

“Remind me never to do this again.” She mutters, and then the blindfold is falling away, and he’s standing in the middle of her room, paint everywhere, and—

His breath hitches at the sight of the bookcase propped by the window, assembled and in place, virtually unrecognizable with a fresh coat of paint over it. His exhale is shaky when he takes another step forward, reaching out to graze at it lightly with his fingertips. It’s painted an inky black, speckled with stars, the night sky, and scattered throughout are his favorite constellations in flowing white ink.

Clarke draws up next to him, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear self-consciously. “It’s not done yet. Well, not entirely. I’m pretty sure some parts are still drying, but I thought you’d like it.”

He swallows, tries to find the words to say. All he really manages is her name.

“I fucked up a little,” she admits, clearly unnerved by his speechlessness. “See, Orion over here? I don’t think I got it exactly right. Then I smudged Cassiopeia and had to start all over again, which was annoying—”

“Clarke,” he manages, voice breaking when he reaches over to cup her jaw carefully, slow enough that she could break away if she wanted to. “Could you please shut up?”

He’s close enough now that he can feel the flutter of her lashes against his cheekbone, her sharp inhalation of breath at the brush of his lips against the corner of her eye.

“Don’t tell me what to do.” She mumbles instead, the words a breathless rush, and then he’s _finally_ kissing her, teeth and tongue and laughter as she surges closer, responding with equal enthusiasm.

“You built me a bookcase.” He says in between kisses, sliding his hands past her shoulders and gripping at her waist. “I can’t believe you built me a fucking bookcase. What, did you take inspiration from the Notebook or something?”

She nips at the divot at his chin, playful. “It’s supposed to be _romantic,_ Bellamy. Don’t fucking ruin it.”

“It’s better than some stupid wooden house.” He murmurs against her neck, pulling away long enough to kiss at her eyelids, her nose. “You’re setting some impossible standards here, Griffin.”

“Technically, we already own a house together. Kind of.” She laughs, nuzzling at his jaw. “We live together, remember? Building you a house just seemed impractical.”

“All sorts of impractical.” He agrees, resting his forehead against hers. “I would have, though. If it meant showing you how I feel about you.”

Dropping her chin against his shoulder, she pulls him into a hug, giving the lightest of kisses against the side of his neck. “In case the bookcase wasn’t clear enough. I love you.”

His laugh bubbles out of him, unbidden, and _god_ , he’s never been this happy in his life. “I love you too. I’ve been in love with you for a while now, to be exact.”

Pulling away, she smiles up at him shyly, delving her fingers into his hair and playing with the ends idly. “Yeah?”

Giving a contented sigh, he allows himself to lean into her touch for a second before pulling away, taking her hand instead. “Yup. Got you a gift and everything too. A grand gesture, I guess you can call it.”

She laughs, burrowing into his side until he throws his arm over her waist, leading her back down the stairs. “Is this how it’s going to be like everytime we say ‘I love you’ now? Because that is a really high bar to live up to.”

“Yeah, well.” Bellamy shrugs, pressing a kiss against her hair. “Get used to it.”

“I’m counting on it.” She tells him solemnly, breaking out into a smile before she rolls up on her toes to kiss him once more.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos keep this writer v.happy, so show me some love if y'all want to. Also, find me on [tumblr](http://prosciuttoe.tumblr.com/).


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